Sometimes I’ll just be going about my day and then I remember the gang and have a little smile.

Je ne m'en lasse pas de cette première rencontre en mai 1965 à l'hôtel Savoy de Londres entre un jeune Donovan de 19 ans intimidé et un Dylan curieux qui reprend vite la main sur ce "duel" improvisé par la presse avec "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue".

Ann Turkel, actress and Widow of Richard Harris, posted this wonderful video, and it's the only time Johnny Carson ever walked off his own show! With Paul Williams and George Peppard

A very clever pun

Especially when driving with the top open! Enjoy your #SundayFunday...

How accurate was Carl Sagan’s 1995 prediction about America? “I have a foreboding of an America in my children’s or grandchildren’s time — when the United States is a service and information economy; when nearly all the key manufacturing industries have slipped away to other countries; when awesome technological powers are in the hands of a very few, and no one representing the public interest can even grasp the issues; when the people have lost the ability to set their own agendas or knowledgeably question those in authority; when, clutching our crystals and nervously consulting our horoscopes, our critical faculties in decline, unable to distinguish between what feels good and what’s true, we slide, almost without noticing, back into superstition and darkness.”

Then there’s Dylan himself. And, of course, when we think of Dylan, words are where a song’s true power lies. Yet what I love about I’m Not There is that, in this moment, Dylan sounds like one of us. How much time have we each spent deciphering his lyrics, searching for clues, piecing together meaning between the lines? Here, Dylan seems to be doing the same. Again, there are traces of the thin wild mercury sound in its impressionistic imagery, yet here the mercury is liquid, shifting as he sings. He sounds unsure of the muse’s intentions, where she is leading him, what the song wishes to reveal. He seems less like the great songwriter delivering a finished work than a fan hearing a Dylan song for the first time, following its strange turns and trying to discover where they lead. The garbled words and freshly formed sentences aren’t so much communicating a settled thought as capturing the act of thought itself, the meaning forever just beyond reach. We can hear Dylan as a conduit, music flowing through him. He chips away as though I’m Not There is trapped inside a block of marble, his tongue carving out the words till it takes shape, a song shrouded in sadness. The fact he never returns to it only makes it all the more incredible. It’s as though he and the muse wrestled with this one, the band fed off their energy, and whatever happened in that room could never be summoned again. Still, Dylan might be struggling with more than the search for meaning. His upstate exodus is where he shall be released, yielding the sepia-toned tunes steeped in the rustic Americana of a bygone world. Here be music pulled from the earth, played by musicians with the dirt still beneath their fingernails, setting Dylan on the path to John Wesley Harding, with its sparse arrangements and biblical allusions. Bible Bob flickers through I’m Not There, with its talk of Kingdoms above, angels and the Lord. But if derangement of the senses Dylan also appears in its passages, then the man who sang “he not busy being born is busy dying”, is drifting dangerously close to reincarnation. This is not where the music of Big Pink was meant to lead him. All the more reason to leave this one locked in the basement. And yet, despite the song’s flickering existence and its author’s internal friction, it still sounds somehow whole. You wouldn’t want it tidied up. I’m glad Dylan never revisited it and gave us the definitive version. Its incompleteness is the point: a fleeting glimpse of genius, reached out for and caught as it passed, before slipping slowly through his fingers. We’re left with this one extraordinary recording, a capture of creation that can never be recreated, and a song that seems to exist nowhere beyond the few minutes in which it came into being. As fans, we spend so much of our time searching for the meaning behind the songs, deciphering puzzles within the work to better understand their creator. It is an impossible task, and this song acts as the personification of this, shifting before our eyes, or ears, as the case might be, just as Dylan does. For how can we solve its meaning when the words remain so indecipherable? What I hear in a line, not just its meaning but the very words themselves, might be completely different from what you hear. Nobody can quite define the lyrics, and Dylan himself sounds as though he’s still trying to discover where they’re taking him. Perhaps that’s why he left the song abandoned, as even he couldn’t quite grasp what had passed through him as it was played. 🧵

U2. Their massive sales and critical status rest on earnest stadium anthems built around delay effects and Bono's persona more than consistent innovation or depth relative to peers. The reputation-to-substance gap is among the widest.

We formally put Vanity Fair and Condé Nast on notice regarding the false and defamatory allegations published about our client, Jared Kushner. Serious questions are now being raised about the credibility of this reporting, including by independent journalists. Despite repeated requests, the author has failed to produce a single bank statement, wire transfer record, account number, or other verifiable evidence supporting these extraordinary accusations. We have seen no indication that Vanity Fair conducted any independent verification of these claims before publishing them. We call on Vanity Fair to clarify publicly whether it independently verified these allegations and, if so, what evidence supports them. Or did it simply republish the author’s claims without conducting its own fact-checking? We have demanded that Vanity Fair remove the article and preserve all records relating to its reporting, fact-checking, editorial review, and publication. Letter attached. More to come.

I asked the president about his job approval number. "It's fake," he quickly said. "It's fake." He pointed to the New York Times -- "The job approval, they said it's 37, 38?" he asked incredulously. "I'm not at 38." I asked where he thought his approval rating actually stands. "I don't believe I could be beaten by anybody," he said. "I think that if I needed it, which I don't, I think 60." Link: Trump and the MAGA enthusiasm strategy. washingtonexaminer.com/daily…

We formally put Vanity Fair and Condé Nast on notice regarding the false and defamatory allegations published about our client, Jared Kushner. Serious questions are now being raised about the credibility of this reporting, including by independent journalists. Despite repeated requests, the author has failed to produce a single bank statement, wire transfer record, account number, or other verifiable evidence supporting these extraordinary accusations. We have seen no indication that Vanity Fair conducted any independent verification of these claims before publishing them. We call on Vanity Fair to clarify publicly whether it independently verified these allegations and, if so, what evidence supports them. Or did it simply republish the author’s claims without conducting its own fact-checking? We have demanded that Vanity Fair remove the article and preserve all records relating to its reporting, fact-checking, editorial review, and publication. Letter attached. More to come.

For the last 10 years, I have ignored false and misleading stories about me and focused on the work. But the cycle has gotten out of control where old lies get repeated as fact, new ones get added, and the record becomes increasingly distorted. So from time to time, I’m going to respond, not to every allegation. But when the truth matters, I’ll put the facts and supporting information out publicly, and people can judge for themselves.